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THE 


VISION    OF    ECHARD 


AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


BY 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY. 

2Dtje  Ktoersiur  ptoss,  Cambridge* 
1878. 


COPYRIGHT,  1878, 
BY  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

All  rights  reserved. 


RIVERSIDE,   CAMBRIDGE  : 
STEREOTYPED    AND    PRINTED 
H.   O.   HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY 


PS 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD 5 

THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM 20 

SUNSET  ON  THE  BEARCAMP 38 

THE  SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL 44 

JUNE  ON  THE  MERRIMAC 53 

HYMN  OF  THE  DUNKERS 62 

IN  THE  OLD  SOUTH 66 

LEXINGTON 70 

CENTENNIAL  HYMN 74 

THIERS 77 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK 79 

WILLIAM  FRANCIS  BARTLETT        ......  84 

THE  Two  ANGELS    .  88 


iv  CONTENTS. 

THE  LIBRARY 92 

THE  HENCHMAN 95 

KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  ANTS 99 

RED  RIDING  HOOD 104 

THE  TRESSED  GENTIAN 108 

OVERRULED .in 

HYMN 113 

GIVING  AND  TAKING .115 

I  WAS  A  STRANGER,  AND  YE  TOOK  ME  IN  .        .       .       .  117 

AT  SCHOOL-CLOSE 120 

AT  EVENTIDE 125 

THE  PROBLEM 127 

RESPONSE 130 


THE  VISION   OF  ECHARD. 

THE  Benedictine  Echard 

Sat,  worn  by  wanderings  far, 

Where  Marsberg  sees  the  bridal 
Of  the  Moselle  and  Sarre. 

Fair  with  its  sloping  vineyards 
And  tawny  chestnut  bloom, 

The  happy  vale  Ausonius  sung 
For  holy  Treves  made  room. 

On  the  shrine  Helena  builded 
To  keep  the  Christ  coat  well, 


THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD. 

On  minster  tower  and  kloster  cross, 
The  westering  sunshine  fell. 

There,  where  the  rock-hewn  circles 
Overlooked  the  Roman's  game, 

The  veil  of  sleep  fell  on  him, 

And  his  thought  a  dream  became. 

He  felt  the  heart  of  silence 
Throb  with  a  soundless  word, 

And  -by  the  inward  ear  alone 
A  spirit's  voice  he  heard. 

And  the  spoken  word  seemed  written 
On  air  and  wave  and  sod, 

And  the  bending  walls  of  sapphire 
Blazed  with  the  thought  of  God  : 


THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD. 

"  What  lack  I,  O  my  children  ? 
All  things  are  in  my  hand  ; 
The  vast  earth  and  the  awful  stars 
I  hold  as  grains  of  sand. 

"  Need  I  your  alms  ?     The  silver 

And  gold  are  mine  alone ; 
The  gifts  ye  bring  before  me 
Were  evermore  my  own. 

"  Heed  I  the  noise  of  viols, 

Your  pomp  of  masque  and  show  ? 
Have  I  not  dawns  and  sunsets  ? 
Have  I  not  winds  that  blow  ? 

"  Do  I  smell  your  gums  of  incense  ? 
Is  my  ear  with  chantings  fed  ? 


8  THE  VISION  OF  EC  HARD. 

Taste  I  your  wine  of  worship, 
Or  eat  your  holy  bread? 

"  Of  rank  and  name  and  honors 
Am  I  vain  as  ye  are  vain  ? 
What  can  Eternal  Fullness 
From  your  lip-service  gain  ? 

"  Ye  make  me  not  your  debtor 

Who  serve  yourselves  alone  ; 
Ye  boast  to  me  of  homage 
Whose  gain  is  all  your  own. 

"  For  you  I  gave  the  prophets, 
For  you  the  Psalmist's  lay ; 
For  you  the  law's  stone  tables, 
And  holy  book  and  day. 


THE  VISION   OF  ECHARD  9 

"  Ye  change  to  weary  burdens 

The  helps  that  should  uplift ; 
Ye  lose  in  form  the  spirit, 
The  Giver  in  the  gift. 

"  Who  called  ye  to  self-torment, 

To  fast  and  penance  vain? 
Dream  ye  Eternal  Goodness 
Has  joy  in  mortal  pain  ? 

"  For  the  death  in  life  of  Nitria, 

For  your  Chartreuse  ever  dumb, 
What  better  is  the  neighbor, 
Or  happier  the  home  ? 

"  Who  counts  his  brother's  welfare 
As  sacred  as  his  own, 


IO  THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD. 

And  loves,  forgives,  and  pities, 
He  serveth  me  alone. 

"  I  note  each  gracious  purpose, 

Each  kindly  word   and  deed  ; 
Are  ye  not  all  my  children  ? 
Shall  not  the  Father  heed  ? 

"  No  prayer  for  light  and  guidance 

Is  lost  upon  mine  ear: 
The  child's  cry  in  the  darkness 
Shall  not  the  Father  hear  ? 

"  I  loathe  your  wrangling  councils, 

I  tread  upon  your  creeds; 
Who  made  ye  mine  avengers, 
Or  told  ye  of  my  needs  ? 


THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD.  II 

"I  bless  men  and  ye  curse  them, 

I  love  them  and  ye  hate  ; 
Ye  bite  and  tear  each  other, 
I  suffer  long  and  wait. 

"Ye  bow  to  ghastly  symbols, 

To  cross  and  scourge  and  thorn ; 
Ye  seek  his  Syrian  manger 
Who  in  the  heart  is  born. 

"For  the  dead  Christ,  not  the  living, 

Ye  watch  his  empty  grave 
Whose  life  alone  within  you 
Has  power  to  bless  and  save. 

"O  blind  ones,  outward  groping, 
The  idle  quest  forego ; 


12  THE  VISION   OF  ECHARD. 

Who  listens  to  his  inward  voice 
Alone  of  him  shall  know. 

"  His  love  all  love  exceeding 

The  heart  must  needs  recall, 
Its  self-surrendering  freedom, 
Its  loss  that  gaineth  all. 

"Climb  not  the  holy  mountains, 
Their  eagles  know  not  me  ; 
Seek  not  the  Blessed  Islands, 
I  dwell  not  in  the  sea. 

"The  gods  are  gone  forever 

From  Zanskar's  glacier  sides, 
And  in  the  Buddha's  footprints 
The  Ceylon  serpent  glides. 


THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD.  13 

"No  more  from  shaded  Delphos 

The  weird  responses  come ; 
Dodona's  oaks  are  silent, 

The  Hebrew  Bath-Col  dumb  ! 

"  No  more  from  rocky  Horeb 
The  smitten  waters  gush ; 
Fallen  is  Bethel's  ladder, 
Quenched  is  the  burning  bush. 

"The  jewels  of  the  Urim 

And  Thummim  all  are  dim  ; 
The  fire  has  left  the  altar, 
The  sign  the  teraphim. 

"  No  more  in  ark  or  hill  grove 
The  Holiest  abides  ; 


14  THE  VISION   OF  ECHARD. 

Not  in  the  scroll's  dead  letter 
The  eternal  secret  hides. 

"  The  eye  shall  fail  that  searches 

For  me  the  hollow  sky ; 

The  far  is  even  as  the  near, 

The  low  is  as  the  high. 

"  What  if  the  earth  is  hiding 

Her  old  faiths,  long  outworn  ? 

What  is  it  to  the  changeless  truth 

That  yours  shall  fail  in  turn  ? 

"What  if  the  o'erturned  altar 
Lays  bare  the  ancient  lie  ? 
What  if  the  dreams  and  legends 
Of  the  world's  childhood  die? 


THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD.  15 

"Have  ye  not  still  my  witness 

Within  yourselves  alway, 
My  hand  that  on  the  keys  of  life 
For  bliss  or  bale  I  lay  ? 

"  Still,  in  perpetual  judgment, 

I  hold  assize  within, 
With  sure  reward  of  holiness, 
And  dread  rebuke  of  sin. 

V 

"  A  light,  a  guide,  a  warning, 

A  presence  ever  near, 
Through  the  deep  silence  of  the  flesh 
I  reach  the  inward  ear. 

"  My  Gerizim  and  Ebal 

Are  in  each  human  soul, 


16  THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD. 

The  still,  small  voice  of  blessing, 
And  Sinai's  thunder-roll. 

"The  stern  behest  of  duty, 

The  doom-book  open  thrown, 
The  heaven  ye  seek,  the  hell  ye  fear, 
Are  with  yourselves  alone." 


A  gold  and  purple  sunset 

Flowed  down  the  broad  Moselle ; 
On  hills  of  vine  and  meadow  lands 

The  peace  of  twilight  fell. 

A  slow,  cool  wind  of  evening 
Blew  over  leaf  and  bloom  ; 

And,  faint  and  far,  the  Angelus 
Rang  from  Saint  Matthew's  tomb. 


THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD.  I/ 

Then  up  rose  Master  Echard, 

And  marveled  :  "  Can  it  be 
That  here,  in  dream  and  vision, 

The  Lord  hath  talked  with  me?" 

He  went  his  way ;  behind  him 

The  shrines  of  saintly  dead, 
The  holy  coat  and  nail  of  cross, 

He  left  unvisited. 

He  sought  the  vale  of  Eltzbach 

His  burdened  soul  to  free, 
Where  the  foot-hills  of  the  Eifel 

Are  glassed  in  Laachersee. 

And,  in  his  Order's  kloster, 
He  sat,  in  night-long  parle, 


1 8  THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD. 

With  Tauler  of  the  Friends  of  God, 
And  Nicolas  of  Basle. 

And  lo  !  the  twain  made  answer : 
"  Yea,  brother,  even  thus 

The  Voice  above  all  voices 
Hath  spoken  unto  us. 

"The  world  will  have  its  idols, 

And  flesh  and  sense  their  sign ; 
But  the  blinded  eyes  shall  open, 
And  the  gross  ear  be  fine. 

"  What  if  the  vision  tarry  ? 

God's  time  is  always  best ; 
The  true  Light  shall  be  witnessed, 
The  Christ  within  confessed. 


THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD.  19 

"In  mercy  or  in  judgment 

He  shall  turn  and  overturn, 
Till  the  heart  shall  be  his  temple 
Where  all  of  Him  shall  learn." 


THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM. 

i. 

ALONG  Crane  River's  sunny  slopes 
Blew  warm  the  winds  of  May, 

And  over  Naumkeag's  ancient  oaks 
The  green  outgrew  the  gray. 

The  grass  was  green  on  Rial-side, 

The  early  birds  at  will 
Waked  up  the  violet  in  its  dell, 

The  wind-flower  on  its  hill. 

"  Where  go  you,  in  your  Sunday  coat  ? 
Son  Andrew,  tell  me,  pray." 


THE   WITCH  OF  WENHAM.  21 

"For  striped  perch  in  Wenham  Lake 
I  go  to  fish  to-day." 

"  Unharmed  of  thee  in  Wenham  Lake 

The  mottled  perch  shall  be  : 
A  blue-eyed  witch  sits  on  the  bank 
And  weaves  her  net  for  thee. 

"  She  weaves  her  golden  hair ;  she  sings 

Her  spell-song  low  and  faint ; 
The  wickedest  witch  in  Salem  jail 
Is  to  that  girl  a  saint." 

"  Nay,  mother,  hold  thy  cruel  tongue ; 

God  knows,"  the  young  man  cried, 
"  He  never  made  a  whiter  soul 

Than  hers  by  Wenham  side. 


22  THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM. 

"  She  tends  her  mother  sick  and  blind, 

And  every  want  supplies ; 
To  her  above  the  blessed  Book 
She  lends  her  soft  blue  eyes. 

"  Her  voice  is  glad  with  holy  songs, 
Her  lips  are  sweet  with  prayer ; 
Go  where  you  will,  in  ten  miles  round 
Is  none  more  good  and  fair." 

"  Son  Andrew,  for  the  love  of  God 

And  of  thy  mother,  stay  !  " 
She  clasped  her  hands,  she  wept  aloud, 
But  Andrew  rode  away. 

"  O  reverend  sir,  my  Andrew's  soul 
The  Wenham  witch  has  caught ; 


THE   WITCH  OF  WENHAM.  23 

She  holds  him  with  the  curled  gold 
Whereof  her  snare  is  wrought. 

"  She  charms  him  with  her  great  blue  eyes, 

She  binds  him  with  her  hair ; 
Oh,  break  the  spell  with  holy  words, 
Unbind  him  with  a  prayer  !  " 

"Take  heart,"  the  painful  preacher  said, 

"  This  mischief  shall  not  be  ; 
The  witch  shall  perish  in  her  sins 
And  Andrew  shall  go  free. 

"  Our  poor  Ann  Putnam  testifies 

She  saw  her  weave  a  spell, 
Bare-armed,  loose-haired,  at  full  of  moon, 
Around  a  dried-up  well. 


24  THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM. 

"'Spring  up,  O  well!'  she  softly  sang 

The  Hebrew's  old  refrain 

(For  Satan  uses  Bible  words), 

Till  water  flowed  amain. 

"  And  many  a  goodwife  heard  her  speak 

By  Wenham  water  words 
That  made  the  buttercups  take  wings 
And  turn  to  yellow  birds. 

"  They  say  that  swarming  wild  bees  seek 

The  hive  at  her  command  ; 
And  fishes  swim  to  take  their  food 
From  out  her  dainty  hand. 

"  Meek  as  she  sits  in  meeting-time, 
The  godly  minister 


THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM.  25 

Notes  well  the  spell  that  doth  compel 
The  young  men's  eyes  to  her. 

"  The  mole  upon  her  dimpled  chin 

Is  Satan's  seal  and  sign  ; 
Her  lips  are  red  with  evil  bread 
And  stain  of  unblest  wine. 

"  For  Tituba,  my  Indian,  saith 

At  Quasycung  she  took 
The  Black  Man's  godless  sacrament 
And  signed  his  dreadful  book. 

"  Last  night  my  sore-afflicted  child 
Against  the  young  witch  cried. 
To  take  her  Marshal  Herrick  rides 
Even  now  to  Wenham  side." 


26  THE   WITCH   OF  WENHAM. 

The  marshal  in  his  saddle  sat, 

His  daughter  at  his  knee  ; 
"  I  go  to  fetch  that  arrant  witch, 
Thy  fair  playmate,"  quoth  he. 

"  Her  spectre  walks  the  parsonage, 

And  haunts  both  hall  and  stair ; 
They  know  her   by  the  great  blue  eyes 
And  floating  gold  of  hair." 

"  They  lie,  they  lie,  my  father  dear ! 

No  foul  old  witch  is  she, 
But  sweet  and  good  and  crystal-pure 
As  Wenham  waters  be." 

"  I  tell  thee,  child,  the  Lord  hath  set 
Before  us  good  and  ill, 


THE   WITCH   OF  WENHAM.  2 

And  woe  to  all  whose  carnal  loves 
Oppose  his  righteous  will. 

"  Between  Him  and  the  powers  of  hell 

Choose  thou,  my  child,  to-day: 
No  sparing  hand,  no  pitying  eye, 
When  God  commands  to  slay ! " 

He  went  his  way  ;  the  old  wives  shook 

With  fear  as  he  drew  nigh ; 
The  children  in  the  dooryards  held 

Their  breath  as  he  passed  by. 

Too  well  they  knew  the  gaunt  gray  horse 
The  grim  witch-hunter  rode  — 

The  pale  Apocalyptic  beast 
By  grisly  Death  bestrode. 


28  THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM. 


II. 


Oh,  fair  the  face  of  Wenham  Lake 
Upon  the  young  girl's  shone, 

Her  tender  mouth,  her  dreaming  eyes, 
Her  yellow  hair  outblown. 

By  happy  youth  and  love  attuned 

To  natural  harmonies, 
The  singing  birds,  the  whispering  wind, 

She  sat  beneath  the  trees. 

Sat  shaping  for  her  bridal  dress 
Her  mother's  wedding  gown, 

When  lo  !  the  marshal,  writ  in  hand, 
From  Alford  hill  rode  down. 


THE  WITCH   OF  WENHAM.  29 

His  face  was  hard  with  cruel  fear, 
He  grasped  the  maiden's  hands : 
"  Come  with  me  unto  Salem  town, 
For  so  the  law  commands  ! " 

"  Oh,  let  me  to  my  mother  say 

Farewell  before  I-  go ! " 
He  closer  tied  her  little  hands 
Unto  his   saddle  bow. 

"  Unhand  me,"  cried  she  piteously, 
"  For  thy  sweet  daughter's  sake." 

"  I  '11  keep  my  daughter  safe,"  he  said, 
"  From  the  witch  of  Wenham  Lake." 

"  Oh,  leave  me  for  my  mother's  sake, 
She  needs  my  eyes  to  see." 


30  THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM. 

"  Those  eyes,  young  witch,  the  crows  shall  peck 
From  off  the  gallows-tree." 

He  bore  her  to  a  farm-house  old, 

And  up  its  stairway  long, 
And  closed  on  her  the  garret- door 

With  iron  bolted  strong. 

The  day  died  out,  the  night  came  down  ; 

Her  evening  prayer  she  said, 
While,  through  the  dark,  strange  faces  seemed 

To  mock  her  as  she  prayed. 

The  present  horror  deepened  all 
The  fears  her  childhood  knew ; 

The  awe  wherewith  the  air  was  filled 
With  every  breath  she  drew. 


THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM.  31 

And  could  it  be,  she  trembling  asked, 

Some  secret  thought  or  sin 
Had  shut  good  angels  from  her  heart 

And  let  the  bad  ones  in  ? 

Had  she  in  some  forgotten  dream 

Let  go  her  hold  on  Heaven, 
And  sold  herself  unwittingly 

To  spirits  unforgiven  ? 

Oh,  weird  and  still  the  dark  hours  passed; 

No  human  sound  she  heard, 
But  up  and  down  the  chimney  stack 

The  swallows  moaned  and  stirred. 

And  o'er  her,  with  a  dread  surmise 
Of  evil  sight  and  sound, 


32  THE  WITCH   OF  WENHAM. 

The  blind  bats  on  their  leathern  wings 
Went  wheeling  round  and  round. 

Low  hanging  in  the  midnight  sky 
Looked  in  a  half-faced  moon. 

Was  it  a  dream,  or  did  she  hear 
Her  lover's  whistled  tune  ? 

She  forced  the  oaken  scuttle  back  ; 

A  whisper  reached  her  ear  : 
"Slide  down  the  roof  to  me,"  it  said, 
"  So  softly  none  may  hear." 

She  slid  along  the  sloping  roof 
Till  from  its  eaves  she  hung, 

And  felt  the  loosened  shingles  yield 
To  which  her  fingers  clung. 


THE  WITCH   OF  WENHAM.  33 

Below,  her  lover  stretched  his  hands 

And  touched  her  feet  so  small ; 
"Drop  down  to  me,  dear  heart,"  he  said, 
"  My  arms  shall  break  the  fall." 

He  set  her  on  his  pillion  soft, 

Her  arms  about  him  twined  ; 
And,  noiseless  as  if  velvet-shod, 

They  left  the  house  behind. 

But  when  they  reached  the  open  way, 

Full  free  the  rein  he  cast ; 
Oh,  never  through  the  mirk  midnight 

Rode  man  and  maid  more  fast. 

Along  the  wild  wood-paths  they  sped, 
The  bridgeless  streams  they  swam ; 
3 


34  THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM. 

At  set  of  moon  they  passed  the  Bass, 
At  sunrise  Agawam. 

At  high  noon  on  the  Merrimac 

The  ancient  ferryman 
Forgot,  at  times,  his  idle  oars, 

So  fair  a  freight  to  scan. 

And  when  from  off  his  grounded  boat 

He  saw  them  mount  and  ride, 
"  God  keep  her  from  the  evil  eye, 
And  harm  of  witch ! "  he  cried. 

The  maiden  laughed,  as  youth  will  laugh 

At  all  its  fears  gone  by ; 
"  He  does  not  know,"  she  whispered  low, 
"A  little  witch  am  I." 


THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM.  35 

All  day  he  urged  his  weary  horse, 

And,  in  the  red  sundown, 
Drew  rein  before  a  friendly  door 

In  distant  Berwick  town. 

A  fellow-feeling  for  the  wronged 

The  Quaker  people  felt ; 
And  safe  beside  their  kindly  hearths 

The  hunted  maiden  dwelt, 

Until  from  off  its  breast  the  land 

The  haunting  horror  threw, 
And  hatred,  born  of  ghastly  dreams, 

To  shame  and  pity  grew. 

Sad  were  the   year's  spring  morns,  and  sad 
Its  golden  summer  day, 


36  THE  WITCH   OF  WENHAM. 

But  blithe  and  glad  its  withered  fields, 
And  skies  of  ashen  gray ; 

For  spell  and  charm  had  power  no  more, 
The  spectres  ceased  to  roam, 

And  scattered  households  knelt  again 
Around  the  hearths  of  home. 

And  when  once  more  by  Beaver  Dam 

The  meadow-lark  outsang, 
And  once  again  on  all  the  hills 

The  early  violets  sprang, 

And  all  the  windy  pasture  slopes 

Lay  green  within  the  arms 
Of  creeks  that  bore  the  salted  sea 

To  pleasant  inland  farms, 


THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM.  37 

The  smith  filed  off  the  chains  he  forged, 

The  jail-bolts  backward  fell ; 
And  youth  and  hoary  age  came  forth 

Like  souls  escaped  from  hell. 


SUNSET   ON   THE  BEARCAMP. 

A  GOLD  fringe  on  the  purpling  hem 

Of  hills  the  river  runs, 
As  down  its  long,  green  valley  falls 

The  last  of  summer's  suns. 
Along  its  tawny  gravel-bed 

Broad-flowing,  swift,  and  still, 
As  if  its  meadow  levels  felt 

The  hurry  of  the  hill, 
Noiseless  between  its  banks  of  green 

From  curve  to  curve  it  slips  ; 
The  drowsy  maple-shadows  rest 

Like  fingers  on  its  lips. 


SUNSET  ON  THE  BEARCAMP.  39 

A  waif  from  Carroll's  wildest  hills, 

Unstoried  and  unknown ; 
The  ursine  legend  of  its  name 

Prowls  on  its  banks  alone. 
Yet  flowers  as  fair  its  slopes  adorn 

As  ever  Yarrow  knew, 
Or,  under  rainy  Irish  skies, 

By  Spenser's  Mulla  grew  ; 
And  through  the  gaps  of  leaning  trees 

Its  mountain  cradle  shows  : 
The  gold  against  the  amethyst, 

The  green  against  the  rose. 

Touched  by  a  light  that  hath  no  name, 

A  glory  never  sung, 
Aloft  on  sky  and  mountain  wall 

Are  God's  great  pictures  hung. 


40  SUNSET  ON  THE  BEARCAMP. 

How  changed  the  summits  vast  and  old  ! 

No  longer  granite-browed, 
They  melt  in  rosy  mist ;  the  rock 

Is  softer  than  the  cloud ; 
The  valley  holds  its  breath ;  no  leaf 

Of  all  its  elms  is  twirled : 
The  silence  of  eternity 

Seems  falling  on  the  world. 

The  pause  before  the  breaking  seals 

Of  mystery  is  this  ; 
Yon  miracle-play  of  night  and  day 

Makes  dumb  its  witnesses. 
What  unseen  altar  crowns  the  hills 

That  reach  up  stair  on  stair? 
What  eyes  look  through,  what  white  wings  fan 

These  purple  veils  of  air? 


SUNSET  ON   THE  BEARCAMP.  41 

What  Presence  from  the  heavenly  heights 
To  those  of  earth  stoops  down  ? 

Not  vainly  Hellas  dreamed  of  gods 
On  Ida's  snowy  crown ! 

Slow  fades  the  vision  of  the  sky, 

The  golden  water  pales, 
And  over  all  the  valley-land 

A  gray-winged  vapor  sails. 
I  go  the  common  way  of  all ; 

The  sunset  fires  will  burn, 
The  flowers  will  blow,  the  river  flow, 

When  I  no  more  return. 
No  whisper  from  the  mountain  pine 

Nor  lapsing  stream  shall  tell 
The  stranger,  treading  where  I  tread, 

Of  him  who  loved  them  well. 


42  SUNSET   ON  THE   BEARCAMP. 

But  beauty  seen  is  never  lost, 

God's  colors  all  are  fast ; 
The  glory  of  this  sunset  heaven 

Into  my  soul  has  passed,  — 
A  sense  of  gladness  unconfined 

To  mortal  date  or  clime ; 
As  the  soul  liveth,  it  shall  live 

Beyond  the  years  of  time. 
Beside  the  mystic  asphodels 

Shall  bloom  the  home-born  flowers, 
And  new  horizons  flush  and  glow 

With  sunset  hues  of  ours. 

Farewell !  these  smiling  hills  must  wear 
Too  soon  their  wintry  frown, 

And  snow-cold  winds  from  off  them  shake 
The  maple's  red  leaves  down. 


SUNSET   ON   THE  BEARCAMP.  43 

But  I  shall  see  a  summer  sun 

Still  setting  broad  and  low ; 
The  mountain  slopes  shall  blush  and  bloom, 

The  golden  water  flow. 
A  lover's  claim  is  mine  on  all 

I  see  to  have  and  hold,  — 
The  rose-light  of  perpetual  hills, 

And  sunsets  never  cold ! 


THE   SEEKING   OF  THE  WATERFALL. 

THEY  left  their  home  of  summer  ease 
Beneath  the  lowland's  sheltering  trees, 
To  seek,  by  ways  unknown  to  all, 
The  promise  of  the  waterfall. 

Some  vague,  faint  rumor  to  the  vale 
Had  crept  —  perchance  a  hunter's  tale  — 
Of  its  wild  mirth  of  waters  lost 
On  the  dark  woods  through  which  it  tossed. 

Somewhere  it  laughed  and  sang ;  somewhere 
Whirled  in  mad  dance  its  misty  hair ; 


THE  SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL.  45 

But  who  had  raised  its  veil,  or  seen 
The  rainbow  skirts  of  that  Undine  ? 

They  sought  it  where  the  mountain  brook 
Its  swift  way  to  the  valley  took ; 
Along  the  rugged  slope  they  clomb, 
Their  guide  a  thread  of  sound  and  foam. 

Height  after  height  they  slowly  won  ; 
The  fiery  javelins  of  the  sun 
Smote  the  bare  ledge ;  the  tangled  shade 
With  rock  and  vine  their  steps  delayed. 

But,  through  leaf-openings,  now  and  then 
They  saw  the  cheerful  homes  of  men, 
And  the  great  mountains  with  their  wall 
Of  misty  purple  girdling  all. 


46  THE  SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL. 

The  leaves  through  which  the  glad  winds  blew 
Shared  the  wild  dance  the  waters  knew ; 
And  where  the  shadows  deepest  fell 
The  wood-thrush  rang  his  silver  bell. 

Fringing  the  stream,  at  every  turn 
Swung  low  the  waving  fronds  of  fern  ; 
From  stony  cleft  and  mossy  sod 
Pale  asters  sprang,  and  golden-rod. 

And  still  the  water  sang  the  sweet, 
Glad  song  that  stirred  its  gliding  feet, 
And  found  in  rock  and  root  the  keys 
Of  its  beguiling  melodies. 

Beyond,  above,  its  signals  flew 

Of  tossing  foam  the  birch-trees  through  ; 


THE  SEEKING   OF  THE   WATERFALL,  47 

Now  seen,  now  lost,  but  baffling  still 
The  weary  seekers'  slackening  will. 

Each  called  to  each  :  "  Lo  here  !  Lo  there  ! 
Its  white  scarf  flutters  in  the  air ! " 
They  climbed  anew ;  the  vision  fled, 
To  beckon  higher  overhead. 

So  toiled  they  up  the  mountain-slope 
With  faint  and  ever  fainter  hope ; 
With  faint  and  fainter  voice  the  brook 
Still  bade  them  listen,  pause,  and  look. 

Meanwhile  below  the  day  was  done ; 
Above  the  tall  peaks  saw  the  sun 
Sink,  beam-shorn,  to  its  misty  set 
Behind  the  hills  of  violet. 


48  THE  SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL. 

"  Here  ends  our  quest ! "  the  seekers  cried, 
"  The  brook  and  rumor  both  have  lied  ! 
The  phantom  of  a  waterfall 
Has  led  us  at  its  beck  and  call." 

But  one,  with  years  grown  wiser,  said  : 
"  So,  always  baffled,  not  misled, 
We  follow  where  before  us  runs 
The  vision  of  the  shining  ones. 

"  Not  where  they  seem  their  signals  fly, 
Their  voices  while  we  listen  die  ; 
We  cannot  keep,  however  fleet, 
The  quick  time  of  their  winged  feet. 

"  From  youth  to  age  unresting  stray 
These  kindly  mockers  in  our  way; 


THE   SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL.  49 

Yet  lead  they  not,  the  baffling  elves, 
To  something  better  than  themselves  ? 

"  Here,  though  unreached  the  goal  we  sought, 
Its  own  reward  our  toil  has  brought : 
The  winding  water's  sounding  rush, 
The  long  note  of  the  hermit  thrush, 

"The  turquoise  lakes,  the  glimpse  of  pond 
And  river  track,  and,  vast,  beyond 
Broad  meadows  belted  round  with  pines, 
The  grand  uplift  of  mountain  lines  ! 

"What  matter  though  we  seek  with  pain 
The  garden  of  the  gods  in  vain, 
If  lured  thereby  we  climb  to  greet 
Some  wayside  blossom  Eden-sweet? 
4 


50  THE   SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL. 

"To  seek  is  better  than  to  gain, 
The  fond  hope  dies  as  we  attain  ; 
Life's  fairest  things  are  those  which  seem, 
The  best  is  that  of  which  we  dream. 

"Then  let  us  trust  our  waterfall 
Still  flashes  down  its  rocky  wall, 
With  rainbow  crescent  curved  across 
Its  sunlit  spray  from  moss  to  moss. 

"And  we,  forgetful  of  our  pain, 
In  thought  shall  seek  it  oft  again  ; 
Shall  see  this  aster-blossomed  sod, 
This  sunshine  of  the  golden-rod, 

"And  haply  gain,  through  parting  boughs, 
Grand  glimpses  of  great  mountain  brows 


THE   SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL.  51 

Cloud-turbaned,  and  the  sharp  steel  sheen 
Of  lakes  deep  set  in  valleys  green. 

"  So  failure  wins  ;  the  consequence 
Of  loss  becomes  its  recompense ; 
And  evermore  the  end  shall  tell 
The  unreached  ideal  guided  well. 

"  Our  sweet  illusions  only  die 
Fulfilling  love's  sure  prophecy; 
And  every  wish  for  better  things 
An  undreamed  beauty  nearer  brings. 

"  For  fate  is  servitor  of  love ; 
Desire  and  hope  and  longing  prove 
The  secret  of  immortal  youth, 
And  Nature  cheats  us  into  truth. 


52  THE   SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL. 

"  O  kind  allurers,  wisely  sent, 
Beguiling  with  benign  intent, 
Still  move  us,  through  divine  unrest, 
To  seek  the  loveliest  and  the  best ! 

"  Go  with  us  when  our  souls  go  free, 
And,  in  the  clear,  white  light  to  be, 
Add  unto  Heaven's  beatitude 
The  old  delight  of  seeking  good ! " 


JUNE   ON  THE  MERRIMAC. 

O  DWELLERS  in  the  stately  towns, 

What  come  ye  out  to  see? 
This  common  earth,  this  common  sky, 

This  water  flowing  free? 

As  gayly  as  these  kalmia  flowers 
Your  door-yard  blossoms  spring  ; 

As  sweetly  as  these  wild  wood  birds 
Your  caged  minstrels  sing. 

You  find  but  common  bloom  and  green, 
The  rippling  river's  rune, 


54  JUNE  ON  THE  MERRIMAC. 

The  beauty  which  is  everywhere 
Beneath  the  skies  of  June; 

The  Hawkswood  oaks,  the  storm-torn  plumes 

Of  old  pine-forest  kings, 
Beneath  whose  century-woven  shade 

Deer  Island's  mistress  sings. 

And  here  are  pictured  Artichoke, 

And  Curson's  bowery  mill ; 
And  Pleasant  Valley  smiles  between 

The  river  and  the  hill. 

You  know  full  well  these  banks  of  bloom, 

The  upland's  wavy  line, 
And  how  the  sunshine  tips  with  fire 

The  needles  of  the  pine. 


JUNE  ON   THE  MERRIMAC.  55 

Yet,  like  some  old  remembered  psalm, 

Or  sweet,  familiar  face, 
Not  less  because  of  commonness 

You  love  the  day  and  place. 

And  not  in  vain  in  this  soft  air 

Shall  hard-strung  nerves  relax, 
Not  all  in  vain  the  o'erworn   brain 

Forego  its  daily  tax. 

The  lust  of  power,  the  greed  of  gain 

Have  all  the  year  their  own  ; 
The  haunting  demons  well  may  let 

Our  one  bright  day  alone. 

Unheeded  let  the  newsboy  call, 
Aside  the  ledger  lay; 


56  JUNE  ON  THE  MERRIMAC. 

The  world  will  keep  his  tread-mill  step 
Though  we  fall  not  to-day. 

The  truants  of  life's  weary  school, 
Without  excuse  from  thrift 

We  change  for  once  the  gains  of  toil 
For  God's  unpurchased  gift. 

From  ceiled  rooms,  from  silent  books, 
From  crowded  car  and  town, 

Dear  Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  lap 
We  lay  our  tired  heads  down. 

Cool,  summer  wind,  our  heated  brows  ; 

Blue  river,  through  the  green 
Of  clustering  pines,  refresh  the  eyes 

Which  all  too  much  have  seen. 


JUNE  ON  THE  ME^RIMAC.  57 

For  us  these  pleasant  woodland  ways 
Are  thronged  with  memories  old, 

Have  felt  the  grasp  of  friendly  hands 
And  heard  love's  story  told.  „ 

A  sacred  presence  overbroods 

The  earth  whereon  we  meet ; 
These  winding  forest-paths  are  trod 

By  more  than  mortal  feet. 

Old  friends  called  from  us  by  the  voice 

Which  they  alone  could  hear, 
From  mystery  to  mystery, 

From  life  to  life,  draw  near. 

More  closely  for  the  sake  of  them 
Each  other's  hands  we  press  ; 


$8  JUNE  ON  THE  MERRIMAC. 

Our  voices  take  from  them  a  tone 
Of  deeper  tenderness. 

Our  joy  is  theirs,  their  trust  is  ours, 

Alike  below,  above, 
Or  here  or  there,  about  us  fold 

The  arms  of  one  great  love ! 

We  ask  to-day  no  countersign, 
No  party  names  we  own  ; 

Unlabeled,  individual, 
We  bring  ourselves  alone. 

What  cares  the  unconventioned  wood 
For  pass-words  of  the  town  ? 

The  sound  of  fashion's  shibboleth 
The  laughing  waters  drown. 


JUNE  ON   THE  MERRIMAC.  59 

Here  cant  forgets  his  dreary  tone, 

And  care  his  face  forlorn ; 
The  liberal  air  and  sunshine  laugh 

The  bigot's  zeal  to  scorn. 

From  manhood's  weary  shoulder  falls 

His  load  of  selfish  cares  ; 
And  woman  takes  her  rights  as  flowers 

And  brooks  and  birds  take  theirs. 

The  license  of  the  happy  woods, 

The  brook's  release,  are  ours  ; 
The  freedom  of  the  unshamed  wind 

Among  the  glad-eyed  flowers. 

Yet  here  no  evil  thought  finds  place, 
Nor  foot  profane  comes  in ; 


60  JUNE  ON  THE  MERRIMAC. 

Our  grove,  like  that  of  Samothrace, 
Is  set  apart  from  sin. 

We  walk  on  holy  ground  ;  above 
A  sky  more  holy  smiles ; 

The  chant  of  the  beatitudes 
Swells  down  these  leafy  aisles. 

Thanks  to  the  gracious  Providence 
That  brings  us  here  once  more  ; 

For  memories  of  the  good  behind 
And  hopes  of  good  before! 

And  if,  unknown  to  us,  sweet  days 
Of  June  like  this  must  come, 

Unseen  of  us  these  laurels  clothe 
The  river-banks,  with  bloom ; 


JUNE  ON  THE  MERRIMAC.  6l 

And  these  green  paths  must  soon  be  trod 

By  other  feet  than  ours, 
Full  long  may  annual  pilgrims  come 

To  keep  the  Feast  of  Flowers  ; 

The  matron  be  a  girl  once  more, 

The  bearded  man  a  boy, 
And  we,  in  heaven's  eternal  June, 

Be  glad  for  earthly  joy ! 


HYMN   OF  THE   BUNKERS. 

KLOSTER    KEDAR,    EPHRATA,     PENNSYLVANIA. 
1738. 

SISTER   MARIA   CHRISTINA   sings. 

WAKE,  sisters,  wake !  the  day-star  shines  ; 
Above  Ephrata's  eastern  pines 
The  dawn  is  breaking,  cool  and  calm. 
Wake,  sisters,  wake  to  prayer  and  psalm ! 

Praised  be  the  Lord  for  shade  and  light, 
For  toil  by  day,  for  rest  by  night ! 
Praised  be  His  name  who  deigns  to  bless 
Our  Kedar  of  the  wilderness!  — 

Our  refuge  when  the  spoiler's  hand 
Was  heavy  on  our  native  land ; 


HYMN  OF  THE  BUNKERS.  63 

And  freedom,  to  her  children  due, 
The  wolf  and  vulture  only  knew. 

We  praised  Him  when  to  prison  led, 
We  owned  Him  when  the  stake  blazed  red ; 
We  knew,  whatever  might  befall, 
His  love  and  power  were  over  all. 

He  heard  our  prayers  ;  with  outstretched  arm 
He  led  us  forth  from  cruel  harm  ; 
Still,  wheresoe'er  our  steps  were  bent, 
His  cloud  and  fire  before  us  went! 

The  watch  of  faith  and  prayer  He  set, 
We  kept  it  then,  we  keep  it  yet. 
At  midnight,  crow  of  cock,  or  noon, 
He  cometh  sure,  He  cometh  soon. 


64  HYMN  OF  THE  BUNKERS. 

He  comes  to  chasten,  not  destroy, 
To  purge  the  earth  from  sin's  alloy. 

At  last,  at  last  shall  all  confess 

» 

His  mercy  as  His  righteousness. 

The  dead  shall  live,  the  sick  be  whole, 
The  scarlet  sin  be  white  as  wool ; 
No  discord  mar  below,  above, 
The  music  of  eternal  love ! 

Sound,  welcome  trump,  the  last  alarm ! 
Lord  God  of  hosts,  make  bare  thine  arm, 
Fulfill  this  day  our  long  desire, 
Make  sweet  and  clean  the  world  with  fire 

Sweep,  flaming  besom,  sweep  from  sight 
The  lies  of  time ;  be  swift  to  smite, 


HYMN   OF  THE  BUNKERS.  6$ 

Sharp  sword  of  God,  all  idols  down, 
Genevan  creed  and  Roman  crown. 

Quake,  earth,  through  all  thy  zones,  till   all 
The  fanes  of  pride  and  priestcraft  fall; 
And  lift  thou  up  in  place  of  them 
Thy  gates  of  pearl,  Jerusalem  ! 

Lo !  rising  from  baptismal  flame, 
Transfigured,  glorious,  yet  the  same, 
Within  the  heavenly  city's  bound 
Our  Kloster  Kedar  shall  be  found. 

He  cometh  soon !  at  dawn  or  noon 
Or  set  of  sun,  He  cometh  soon. 
Our  prayers  shall  meet  Him  on  his  way ; 
Wake,  sisters,  wake !  arise  and  pray ! 
$ 


IN  THE  "OLD   SOUTH." 

1677. 
SHE  came  and  stood  in  the  Old  South  Church, 

A  wonder  and  a  sign, 
With  a  look  the  old  time  sibyls  wore, 

Half-crazed  and  half-divine. 

Save  the  mournful  sackcloth  about  her  wound 

Unclothed  as  the  primal  mother, 
With  limbs  that  trembled  and  eyes  that  blazed 

With  a  fire  she  dared  not  smother. 

Loose  on  her  shoulders  fell  her  hair 
With  sprinkled  ashes  gray, 


IN  THE   "OLD    SOUTH."  6/ 

She  stood  in  the  broad  aisle  strange  and  weird 
As  a  soul  at  the  judgment  day. 

And  the  minister  paused  in  his  sermon's  midst, 
And  the  people  held  their  breath, 

For  these  were  the  words   the  maiden  spoke 
Through  lips  as  pale  as  death : 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  with  equal  feet 

All  men  my  courts  shall  tread, 
And  priest  and  ruler  no  more  shall  eat 
My  people  up  like  bread  ! 

"  Repent !  repent !  ere  the  Lord  shall  speak 

In  thunder  and  breaking  seals ! 
Let  all  souls  worship  Him  in  the  way 
His  light  within  reveals." 


68  IN  THE   "OLD   SOUTH." 

She  shook  the  dust  from  her  naked  feet, 

And  her  sackcloth  closer  drew, 
And  into  the  porch  of  the  awe-hushed  church 

She  passed  like  a  ghost  from  view. 

They  whipped  her  away  at  the  tail  o'  the  cart 
Through  half  the  streets  of  the  town, 

But  the  words  she  uttered  that  day  nor  fire 
Could  burn  nor  water  drown. 

And  now  the  aisles  of  the  ancient  church 

By  equal  feet  are  trod, 
And  the  bell  that  swings  in  its  belfry  rings 

Freedom  to  worship  God ! 

And  now  whenever  a  wrong  is  done 
It  thrills  the  conscious  walls  ; 


IN  THE  "OLD   SOUTH."  69 

The  stone  from  the  basement  cries  aloud 
And  the  beam  from  the  timber  calls. 

There  are  steeple-houses  on  every  hand, 

And  pulpits  that  bless  and  ban, 
And  the  Lord  will  not  grudge  the  single  church 

That  is  set  apart  for  man. 

For  in  two  commandments  are  all  the  law 
And  the  prophets  under  the  sun, 

And  the  first  is  last  and  the  last  is  first, 
And  the  twain  are  verily  one. 

So,  long  as  Boston  shall  Boston  be, 

And  her  bay-tides  rise  and  fall, 
Shall  freedom  stand  in  the  Old  South  Church 

And  plead  for  the  rights  of  all !         » 


LEXINGTON. 


No  Berserk  thirst  of  blood  had  they, 
No  battle-joy  was  theirs,  who  set 
Against  the  alien  bayonet 

Their  homespun  breasts  in  that  old  day. 

Their  feet  had  trodden  peaceful  ways  ; 

They  loved  not  strife,  they  dreaded  pain  ; 

They  saw  not,  what  to  us  is  plain, 
That  God  would  make  man's  wrath  his  praise. 

No  seers  were  they,  but  simple  men  ; 
•  Its  vast  results  the  future  hid  : 


LEXINGTON.  Ji 

The  meaning  of  the  work  they  did 
Was  strange  and  dark  and  doubtful  then. 

Swift  as  their  summons  came  they  left 
The  plow  mid-furrow  standing  still, 
The  half-ground  corn  grist  in  the  mill, 

The  spade  in  earth,  the  axe  in  cleft. 

They  went  where  duty  seemed  to  call, 
They  scarcely  asked  the  reason  why; 
They  only  knew  they  could  but  die, 

And  death  was  not  the  worst  of  all ! 

Of  man  for  man  the  sacrifice, 
All  that  was  theirs  to  give,  they  gave. 
The  flowers  that  blossomed  from  their  grave 

Have  sown  themselves  beneath  all  skies. 


72  LEXINGTON. 

Their  death-shot  shook  the  feudal  tower, 
And  shattered  slavery's  chain  as  well ; 
On  the  sky's  dome,  as  on  a  bell, 

Its  echo  struck  the  world's  great  hour. 

« 
That  fateful  echo  is  not  dumb : 

The  nations  listening  to  its  sound 
Wait,  from  a  century's  vantage-ground, 
The  holier  triumphs  yet  to  come,  — 

The  bridal  time  of  Law  and  Love, 
The  gladness  of  the  world's  release, 
When,  war-sick,  at  the  feet  of  Peace 

The  hawk  shall  nestle  with  the  dove!  — 

The  golden  age  of  brotherhood 
Unknown  to  other  rivalries 


LEXINGTON,  .  73 

Than  of  the  mild  humanities, 
And  gracious  interchange  of  good, 

When  closer  strand  shall  lean  to  strand, 
Till  meet,  beneath  saluting  flags, 
The  eagle  of  our  mountain-crags, 

The  lion  of  our  Motherland  ! 


CENTENNIAL   HYMN. 

i. 

OUR  fathers'  God !  from  out  whose  hand 

The  centuries  fall  like  grains  of  sand, 
We  meet  to-day,  united,  free, 
And  loyal  to  our  land  and  Thee, 
To  thank  Thee  for  the  era  done, 
And  trust  Thee  for  the  opening  one. 

II. 

Here,  where  of  old,  by  Thy  design, 
The  fathers  spake  that  word  of  Thine 
Whose  echo  is  the  glad  refrain 
Of  rended  bolt  and  falling  chain, 


CENTENNIAL   HYMN.  75 

To  grace  our  festal  time,  from  all 
The  zones  of  earth  our  guests  we  call. 

in. 

Be  with  us  while  the  New  World  greets 
The  Old  World  thronging  all  its  streets, 
Unveiling  all  the  triumphs  won 
By  art  or  toil  beneath  the  sun  ; 
And  unto  common  good  ordain 
This  rivalship  of  hand  and  brain. 

IV. 

Thou,  who  hast  here  in  concord  furled 
The  war  flags  of  a  gathered  world, 
Beneath  our  Western  skies  fulfill 
The  Orient's  mission  of  good-will, 
And,  freighted  with  love's  Golden  Fleece, 
Send  back  its  Argonauts  of  peace. 


76  CENTENNIAL  HYMN. 

V. 

For  art  and  labor  met  in  truce, 
For  beauty  made  the  bride  of  use, 
We  thank  Thee  ;  but,  withal,  we  crave 
The  austere  virtues  strong  to  save, 
The  honor  proof  to  place  or  gold, 
The  manhood  never  bought  nor  sold  ! 

VI. 

Oh  make  Thou  us,  through  centuries  long, 
In  peace  secure,  in  justice  strong  ; 
Around  our  gift  of  freedom  draw 
The  safeguards  of  Thy  righteous  law  ; 
And,  cast  in  some  diviner  mold, 
Let  the  new  cycle  shame  the  old  ! 


THIERS. 

i. 

FATE  summoned,  in  gray-bearded  age,  to  act 
A  history  stranger  than  his  written  fact, 

Him  who  portrayed  the  splendor  and  the  gloom 
Of  that  great  hour  when  throne  and  altar  fell 
With  long  death-groan  which  still  is  audible. 

He,  when  around  the  walls  of  Paris  rung 
The  Prussian  bugle  like  the  blast  of  doom, 
And  every  ill  which  follows  unblest  war 
Maddened  all  France  from  Finistere  to  Var, 

The  weight  of  fourscore  from  his  shoulders  flung, 
And  guided  Freedom  in  the  path  he  saw 
Lead  out  of  chaos  into  light  and  law, 


78  THIERS. 

Peace,  not  imperial,  but  republican, 

And  order  pledged  to  all  the  Rights  of  Man. 

ii. 

Death  called  him  from  a  need  as  imminent 
As  that  from  which  the  Silent  William  went 
When  powers  of  evil,  like  the  smiting  seas 
On  Holland's  dikes,  assailed  her  liberties. 
Sadly,  while  yet  in  doubtful  balance  hung 
The  weal  and  woe  of  France,  the  bells  were  rung 
For  her  lost  leader.     Paralyzed  of  will, 
Above  his  bier  the  hearts  of  men  stood  still. 
Then,  as  if  set  to  his  dead  lips,  the  horn 
Of  Roland  wound  once  more  to  rouse  and  warn, 
The  old  voice  filled  the  air !     His  last  brave  word 
Not  vainly  France  to  all  her  boundaries  stirred. 
Strong  as  in  life,  he  still  for  Freedom  wrought, 
As  the  dead  Cid  at  red  Toloso  fought. 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK. 

AT   THE    UNVEILING   OF    HIS   STATUE. 

AMONG  their  graven  shapes  to  whom 

Thy  civic  wreaths  belong, 
O  city  of  his  love,  make  room 

For  one  whose  gift  was  song. 

Not  his  the  soldier's  sword  to  wield. 
Nor  his  the  helm  of  state, 

Nor  glory  of  the  stricken  field, 
Nor  triumph  of  debate. 

In  common  ways,  with  common  men, 
He  served  his  race  and  time 


80  FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK. 

As  well  as  if  his  clerkly  pen 
Had  never  danced  to  rhyme. 

If,  in  the  thronged  and  noisy  mart, 
The  Muses  found   their  son, 

Could  any  say  his  tuneful  art 
A  duty  left  undone  ? 

He  toiled  and  sang ;  and  year  by  year 

Men  found  their  homes  more  sweet, 

t 
And  through  a  tenderer  atmosphere 

Looked  down  the  brick-walled  street. 

The  Greek's  wild  onset  Wall  Street  knew; 

The  Red  King  walked  Broadway  ; 
And  Alnwick  Castle's  roses  blew 

From   Palisades  to  Bay. 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK.  8 1 

Fair  City  by  the  Sea !  upraise 

His  veil  with  reverent  hands  ; 
And  mingle  with  thy  own  the  praise 

And  pride  of  other  lands. 

Let  Greece  his  fiery  lyric  breathe 

Above  her  hero-urns  ; 
And  Scotland,  with  her  holly,  wreathe 

The  flower  he  culled  for  Burns. 

O,  stately  stand,  thy  palace  walls, 

Thy  tall  ships  ride  the  seas  ; 
To-day  thy  poet's  name  recalls 

A  prouder  thought  than  these. 

Not  less  thy  pulse  of  trade  shall  beat, 
Nor  less  thy  tall  fleets  swim, 
6 


82  FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK. 

That  shaded  square  and  dusty  street 
Are  classic  ground  through  him. 

Alive,  he  loved,  like  all  who  sing, 

The  echoes  of  his  song; 
Too  late  the  tardy  meed  we  bring, 

The  praise  delayed  so  long. 

Too  late,  alas !     Of  all  who  knew 

The  living  man,  to-day 
Before  his  unveiled  face,  how  few 

Make  bare  their  locks  of  gray ! 

Our  lips  of  praise  must  soon  be  dumb, 
Our  grateful  eyes  be  dim  ; 

O  brothers  of  the  days  to  come, 
Take  tender  charge  of  him  ! 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK.  83 

New  hands  the  wires  of  song  may  sweep, 

New  voices  challenge  fame  ; 
But  let  no  moss  of  years  o'ercreep 

The  lines  of  Halleck's  name. 


WILLIAM  FRANCIS  BARTLETT. 

O,  WELL  may  Essex  sit  forlorn 
Beside  her  sea-blown  shore  ; 

Her  well  beloved,  her  noblest  born, 
Is  hers  in  life  no  more ! 

No  lapse  of  years  can  render  less 
Her  memory's  sacred  claim  ; 

No  fountain  of  forgetfulness 
Can  wet  the  lips  of  Fame*. 

A  grief  alike  to  wound  and  heal, 
A  thought  to  soothe  and  pain, 


WILLIAM  FRANCIS  BARTLETT.  85 

The  sad,  sweet  pride  that  mothers  feel 
To  her  must  still  remain. 

Good  men  and  true  she  has  not  lacked, 

And  brave  men  yet  shall  be  ; 
The  perfect  flower,  the  crowning  fact, 

Of  all  her  years  was  he  ! 

As  Galahad  pure,  as  Merlin  sage, 
What  worthier  knight  was  found 

To  grace  in  Arthur's  golden  age 
The  fabled  Table  Round  ? 

A  voice,  the  battle's  trumpet-note, 

To  welcome  and  restore ; 
A  hand,  that  all  unwilling  smote, 

To  heal  and  build  once  more ! 


86  WILLIAM   FRANCIS  BARTLETT. 

A  soul  of  fire,  a  tender  heart 
Too  warm  for  hate,  he  knew 

The  generous  victor's  graceful  part 
To  sheathe  the  sword  he  drew. 

When  Earth,  as  if  on  evil  dreams, 
Looks  back  upon  her  wars, 

And  the  white  light  of  Christ  outstreams 
From  the  red  disk  of  Mars, 

His  fame  who  led  the  stormy  van 

Of  battle  well  may  cease, 
But  never  that  which  crowns  the  man 

Whose  victory  was  Peace. 

Mourn,  Essex,  on  thy  sea-blown  shore 
Thy  beautiful  and  brave, 


WILLIAM  FRANCIS  BARTLETT.  8/ 

Whose  failing  hand  the  olive  bore, 
Whose  dying  lips  forgave! 

Let  age  lament  the  youthful   chief, 

And  tender  eyes  be  dim ; 
The  tears  are  more  of  joy  than  grief 

That  fall  for  one  like  him  ! 


THE  TWO  ANGELS. 

GOD    called    the    nearest    angels   who    dwell  with 

Him  above  : 
The  tenderest  one   was  Pity,  the   dearest  one  was 

Love. 

"  Arise,"  He  said,  "  my  angels !  a  wail  of  woe  and 

sin 
Steals  through   the  gates  of  heaven,  and  saddens 

all  within. 

"My  harps  take  up  the  mournful  strain  that  from 

a  lost  world  swells, 
The  smoke  of  torment  clouds  the  light  and  blights 

the  asphodels. 


THE   TWO  ANGELS.  89 

"Fly    downward   to   that   under  world,  and   on  its 

souls  of  pain 
Let  Love  drop  smiles  like  sunshine,  and  Pity  tears 

like  rain  ! " 

• 

Two  faces  bowed  before  the  Throne  veiled  in  their 

golden  hair; 
Four  white  wings  lessened   swiftly  down   the  dark 

abyss  of  air. 

The  way  was  strange,  the  flight  was  long ;  at  last 
the  angels  came 

Where  swung  the  lost  and  nether  world,  red- 
wrapped  in  rayless  flame. 

There  Pity,  shuddering,  wept ;  but  Love,  with  faith 
too  strong  for  fear, 


90  THE  TWO  ANGELS. 

Took  heart  from  God's  almightiness  and  smiled  a 
smile  of  cheer. 

And  lo !  that  tear  of  Pity  quenched  the  flame 
whereon  it  fell, 

And,  with  the  sunshine  of  that  smile,  hope  en- 
tered into  hell ! 

Two  unveiled  faces  full  of  joy  looked   upward   to 

the  Throne, 
Four  white  wings  folded  at  the  feet  of  Him  who 

sat  thereon  ! 

And  deeper  than  the  sound  of  seas,  more  soft  than 

falling  flake, 
Amidst    the  hush  of    wing    and    song  the  Voice 

Eternal  spake  : 


THE  TWO  ANGELS.  91 

"  Welcome,  my  angels  !   ye  have   brought   a  holier 

joy  to  heaven  ; 
Henceforth  its  sweetest  song  shall  be  the  song  of  " 

sin  forgiven  ! " 


THE    LIBRARY. 

SUNG  AT  THE   OPENING  OF  THE  HAVERHILL  LIBRARY. 

"  LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  ! "  God  spake  of  old, 
And  over  chaos  dark  and  cold, 
And,  through  the  dead  and  formless  frame 
Of  nature,  life  and  order  came. 

Faint  was  the  light  at  first  that  shone 
On  giant  fern  and  mastodon, 
On  half-formed  plant  and  beast  of  prey, 
And  man  as  rude  and  wild  as  they. 

Age  after  age,  like  waves,  o'erran 
The  earth,  uplifting  brute  and  man  ; 


THE  LIBRARY.  93 

And  mind,  at  length,  in  symbols  dark 
Its  meanings  traced  on  stone  and  bark. 

On  leaf  of  palm,  on  sedge-wrought  roll, 
On  plastic  clay  and  leathern  scroll, 
Man  wrote  his  thoughts  ;   the  ages  passed, 
And  lo  !   the  Press  was  found  at  last ! 

Then  dead  souls  woke ;  the  thoughts  of  men 
Whose  bones  were  dust  revived  again  ; 
The  cloister's  silence  found  a  tongue, 
Old  prophets  spake,  old  poets  sung. 

And  here,  to-day,  the  dead  look  down, 
The  kings  of  mind  again  we  crown  ; 
We  hear  the  voices  lost  so  long, 
The  sage's  word,  the  sibyl's  song. 


94  THE  LIBRARY. 

Here  Greek  and  Roman  find  themselves 
Alive  along  these  crowded  shelves ; 
And  Shakespeare  treads  again  his  stage, 
And  Chaucer  paints  anew  his  age. 

As  if  some  Pantheon's  marbles  broke 
Their  stony  trance,  and  lived  and  spoke, 
Life  thrills  along  the  alcoved  hall, 
The  lords  of  thought  await  our  call ! 


THE    HENCHMAN. 

MY  lady  walks  her  morning  round, 
My  lady's  page  her  fleet  greyhound, 
My  lady's  hair  the  fond  winds  stir, 
And  all  the  birds  make  songs  for  her. 

Her  thrushes  sing  in  Rathburn  bowers, 
And  Rathburn  side  is  gay  with  flowers  ; 
But  ne'er  like  hers,  in  flower  or  bird, 
Was  beauty  seen  or  music  heard. 

The  distance  of  the  stars  is  hers ; 
The  least  of  all  her  worshipers, 
The  dust  beneath  her  dainty  heel, 
She  knows  not  that  I  see  or  feel. 


96  THE  HENCHMAN. 

O  proud  and  calm  !  —  she  cannot  know 
Where'er  she  goes  with  her  I  go ; 

0  cold  and  fair  !  —  she  cannot  guess 

1  kneel  to  share  her  hound's  caress ! 

Gay  knights  beside  her  hunt  and  hawk, 
I  rob  their  ears  of  her  sweet  talk ; 
Her  suitors  come  from  east  and  west, 
I  steal  her  smiles  from  every  guest. 

Unheard  of  her,  in  loving  words, 
I  greet  her  with  the  song  of  birds  ; 
I  reach  her  with  her  green- armed  bowers, 
I  kiss  her  with  the  lips  of  flowers. 

The  hound  and  I  are  on  her  trail, 
The  wind  and  I  uplift  her  veil ; 


THE  HENCHMAN.  97 

As  if  the  calm,  cold  moon  she  were, 
And  I  the  tide,  I  follow  her. 

As  unrebuked  as  they,  I  share 
The  license  of  the  sun  and  air, 
And  in  a  common  homage  hide 
My  worship  from  her  scorn  and  pride. 

World-wide  apart,  and  yet  so  near, 
I  breathe  her  charmed  atmosphere, 
Wherein  to  her  my  service  brings 
The  reverence  due  to  holy  things. 

Her  maiden  pride,  her  haughty  name, 
My  dumb  devotion  shall  not  shame ; 
The  love  that  no  return  doth  crave 
To  knightly  levels  lifts  the  slave. 
7 


98  THE  HENCHMAN. 

No  lance  have  I,  in  joust  or  fight, 
To  splinter  in  my  lady's  sight ; 
But,  at  her  feet,  how  blest  were  I 
For  any  need  of  hers  to  die ! 


KING    SOLOMON    AND    THE    ANTS. 

OUT  from  Jerusalem 

The  kkig  rode  with  his  great 
War  chiefs  and  lords  of  state, 

And  Sheba's  queen  with  them, 

Comely,  but  black  withal, 
To  whom,  perchance,  belongs 
That  wondrous  Song  of  songs, 

Sensuous  and  mystical, 

Whereto  devout  souls  turn 
In  fond,  ecstatic  dream, 


IOO  KING  SOLOMON   AND  THE  ANTS. 

And  through  its  earth-born  theme 
The  Love  of  loves  discern. 

Proud  in  the  Syrian  sun, 
In  gold  and  purple  sheen, 
The  dusky  Ethiop  queen 

Smiled  on  King  Solomon. 

Wisest  of  men,  he  knew 
•     The  languages  of  all 

The  creatures  great  or  small 
That  trod  the  earth  or  flew. 

Across  an  ant-hill  led 

The  king's  path,  and  he  heard 
Its  small  folk,  and  their  word 

He  thus  interpreted  : 


KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  ANTS.  IOI 

"  Here  comes  the  king  men  greet 
As  wise  and  good  and  just, 
To  crush  us  in  the  dust 
Under  his  heedless  feet." 

The  great  king  bowed  his  head, 

And  saw  the  wide  surprise 

Of  the  Queen  of  Sheba's  eyes 
As  he  told  her  what  they  said. 

"  O  king  !  "  she  whispered  sweet, 
"Too  happy  fate  have  they 

Who  perish  in  thy  way 
Beneath  thy  gracious  feet ! 

"  Thou  of  the  God-lent  crown, 
Shall  these  vile  creatures  dare 


102  KING  SOLOMON  AND   THE  ANTS. 

Murmur  against  thee  where 
The  knees  of  kings  kneel  down  ? " 

"Nay,"  Solomon  replied, 

"The  wise  and  strong  should  seek 

The  welfare  of  the  weak," 
And  turned  his  horse  aside. 

His  train,  with  quick  alarm, 
Curved  with  their  leader  round 
The  ant-hill's  peopled  mound, 

And  left  it  free  from  harm. 

The  jeweled  head  bent  low; 

"  O  king  ! "  she  said,  "  henceforth 

The  secret  of  thy  worth 
And  wisdom  well  I  know. 


KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  ANTS.  1 03 

"  Happy  must  be  the  State 
Whose  ruler  heedeth  more 
The  murmurs  of  the  poor 
Than  flatteries  of  the  great." 


RED  RIDING-HOOD. 

ON  the  wide  lawn  the  snow  lay  deep, 
Ridged  o'er  with  many  a  drifted  heap  ; 
The  wind  that  through  the  pine-trees  sung 
The  naked  elm-boughs  tossed  and  swung  ; 
While,  through  the  window,  frosty-starred, 
Against  the  sunset  purple  barred, 
We  saw  the  sombre  crow  flap  by, 
The  hawk's  gray  fleck  along  the  sky, 
The  crested  blue-jay  flitting  swift, 
The  squirrel  poising  on  the  drift, 
Erect,  alert,  his  broad  gray  tail 
Set  to  the  north  wind  like  a  sail. 


RED  RIDING-HOOD.  IO$ 

It  came  to  pass,  our  little  lass, 
With  flattened  face  against  the  glass, 
And  eyes  in  which  the  tender  dew 
Of  pity  shone,  stood  gazing  through 
The  narrow  space  her  rosy  lips 
Had  melted  from  the  frost's  eclipse : 
"Oh,  see,"  she  cried,  "the  poor  blue-jays! 
What  is  it  that  the  black  crow  says  ? 
The  squirrel  lifts  his  little  legs 
Because  he  has  no  hands,  and  begs  ; 
He  's  asking  for  my  nuts,  I  know  : 
May  I  not  feed  them  on  the  snow?" 

Half  lost  within  her  boots,  her  head 
Warm-sheltered  in  her  hood  of  red, 
Her  plaid  skirt  close  about  her  drawn, 
She  floundered  down  the  wintry  lawn  ; 


IO6  RED   RIDING-HOOD. 

Now  struggling  through  the  misty  veil 
Blown  round  her  by  the  shrieking  gale ; 
Now  sinking  in  a  drift  so  low 
Her  scarlet  hood  could  scarcely  show 
Its  dash  of  color  on  the  snow. 

She  dropped  for  bird  and  beast  forlorn 
Her  little  store  of  nuts  and  corn, 
And  thus  her  timid  guests  bespoke: 
"Come,  squirrel,  from  your  hollow  oak, — 
Come,  black  old  crow,  —  come,  poor  blue-jay, 
Before  your  supper 's  blown  away ! 
Don't  be  afraid,  we  all  are  good ; 
And  I  'm  mamma's  Red  Riding-Hood !  " 

O  Thou  whose  care  is  over  all, 
Who  heedest  even  the  sparrow's  fall, 


RED  RIDING-HOOD.  JO? 

Keep  in  the  little  maiden's  breast 
The  pity  which  is  now  its  guest ! 
Let  not  her  cultured  years  make  less 
The  childhood  charm  of  tenderness, 
But  let  her  feel  as  well  as  know, 
Nor  harder  with  her  polish  grow! 
Unmoved  by  sentimental  grief 
That  wails  along  some  printed  leaf, 
But,  prompt  with  kindly  word  and  deed 
To  own  the  claims  of  all  who  need, 
Let  the  grown  woman's  self  make  good 
The  promise  of  Red  Riding-Hood ! 


THE  PRESSED  GENTIAN. 

THE  time  of  gifts  has  come  again, 
And,  on  my  northern  window-pane, 
Outlined  against  the  day's  brief  light, 
A  Christmas  token  hangs  in  sight. 
The  wayside  travelers,  as  they  pass, 
Mark  the  gray  disk  of  clouded  glass ; 
And  the  dull  blankness  seems,  perchance, 
Folly  to  their  wise  ignorance. 

They  cannot  from  their  outlook  see 

The  perfect  grace  it  hath  for  me ; 

For  there  the  flower,  whose  fringes  through 

The  frosty  breath  of  autumn  blew, 


THE  PRESSED  GENTIAN.  109 

Turns  from  without  its  face  of  bloom 
To  the  warm  tropic  of  my  room, 
As  fair  as  when  beside  its  brook 
The  hue  of  bending  skies  it  took. 

So,  from  the  trodden  ways  of  earth, 

Seem  some  sweet  souls  who  veil  their  worth, 

And  offer  to  the  careless  glance 

The  clouding  gray  of  circumstance. 

They  blossom  best  where  hearth-fires  burn, 

To  loving  eyes  alone  they  turn 

The  flowers  of  inward  grace,  that  hide 

Their  beauty  from  the  world  outside. 

But  deeper  meanings  come  to  me, 
My  half-immortal  flower,  from  thee ! 


110  THE  PRESSED  GENTIAN. 

Man  judges  from  a  partial  view, 
None  ever  yet  his  brother  knew  ; 
The  Eternal  Eye  that  sees  the  whole 
May  better  read  the  darkened  soul, 
And  find,  to  outward  sense  denied, 
The  flower  upon  its  inmost  side ! 


OVERRULED. 

THE  threads  our  hands  in  blindness  spin 
No  self-determined  plan  weaves  in ; 
The  shuttle  of  the  unseen  powers 
Works  out  a  pattern  not  as  ours. 

Ah !  small  the  choice  of  him  who  sings 
What  sound  shall  leave  the  smitten  strings ; 
Fate  holds  and  guides  the  hand  of  art ; 
The  singer's  is  the  servant's  part. 

The  wind-harp  chooses  not  the  tone 

That  through  its  trembling  threads  is  blown ; 


112  OVERRULED. 

The  patient  organ  cannot  guess 

What  hand  its  passive  keys  shall  press. 

Through  wish,  resolve,  and  act,  our  will 
Is  moved  by  undreamed  forces  still ; 
And  no  man  measures  in  advance 
His  strength  with  untried  circumstance. 

As  streams  take  hue  from  shade  and  sun, 
As  runs  the  life  the  song  must  run  ; 
But,  glad  or  sad,  to  his  good  end 
God  grant  the  varying  notes  may  tend ! 


HYMN. 


MISSION,    BOSTON,     1 8/8. 

THINE  are  all  the  gifts,  O  God  ! 

Thine  the  broken  bread  ; 
Let  the  naked  feet  be  shod, 

And  the  starving  fed. 

Let  Thy  children,  by  Thy  grace, 

Give  as  they  abound, 
Till  the  poor  have  breathing-space, 

And  the  lost  are  found. 

Wiser  than  the  miser's  hoards 
Is  the  giver's  choice  ; 
-      8 


1 14  HYMN. 

Sweeter  than  the  song  of  birds 
Is  the  thankful  voice. 

Welcome  smiles  on  faces  sad 
As  the  flowers  of  spring  ; 

Let  the  tender  hearts  be  glad 
With  the  joy  they  bring. 

Happier  for  their  pity's  sake 
Make  their  sports  and  plays, 

And  from  lips  of  childhood  take 
Thy  perfected  praise ! 


GIVING  AND   TAKING.1 

WHO  gives  and  hides  the  giving  hand, 
Nor  counts  on  favor,  fame,  or  praise, 
Shall  find  his  smallest  gift  outweighs 

The  burden  of  the  sea  and  land. 

Who  gives  to  whom  hath  naught  been  given, 
His  gift  in  need,  though  small  indeed 
As  is  the  grass-blade's  wind-blown  seed, 

Is  large  as  earth  and  rich  as  heaven. 

Forget  it  not,  O  man,  to  whom 
A  gift  shall  fall,  while  yet  on  earth  ; 

1  I  have  attempted  to  put  in  English  verse  a  prose  translation 
of  a  poem  by  Tinnevaluva,  a  Hindoo  poet  of  the  third  century 
of  our  era. 


Il6  GIVING  AND  TAKING. 

Yea,  even  to  thy  seven-fold  birth 
Recall  it  in  the  lives  to  come. 

Who  broods  above  a  wrong  in  thought 
Sins  much;  but  greater  sin  is  his 
Who,  fed  and  clothed  with  kindnesses, 

Shall  count  the  holy  alms  as  nought. 

Who  dares  to  curse  the  hands  that  bless 
Shall  know  of  sin  the  deadliest  cost ; 
The  patience  of  the  heavens  is  lost 

Beholding  man's  unthankfulness. 

For  he  who  breaks  all  laws  may  still 
In  Sivam's  mercy  be  forgiven  ; 
But  none  can  save,  in  earth  or  heaven, 

The  wretch  who  answers  good  with  ill 


"  I  WAS  A  STRANGER,  AND  YE  TOOK 
ME  IN." 

'NEATH  skies  that  winter  never  knew 
The  air  was  full  of  light  and  balm, 

And  warm  and  soft  the  Gulf  wind  blew 
Through  orange  bloom  and  groves  of  palm. 

A  stranger  from  the  frozen  North, 

Who  sought  the  fount  of  health  in  vain, 

Sank  homeless  on  the  alien  earth, 

And  breathed  the  languid  air  with  pain. 

God's  angel  came !     The  tender  shade 
Of  pity  made  her  blue  eye  dim  ; 


Il8   "I  WAS  A  STRANGER,  AND   YE  TOOK  ME  IN." 

Against  her  woman's  breast  she  laid 
The  drooping,  fainting  head  of  him. 

She  bore  him  to  a  pleasant  room, 

Flower-sweet  and  cool  with  salt  sea  air, 

And  watched  beside  his  bed,  for  whom 
His  far-off  sisters  might  not  care. 

She  fanned  his  feverish  brow  and  smoothed 
Its  lines  of  pain  with  tenderest  touch. 

With  holy  hymn  and  prayer  she  soothed 
The  trembling  soul  that  feared  so  much. 

Through  her  the  peace  that  passeth  sight 

Came  to  him,  as  he  lapsed  away 
As  one  whose  troubled  dreams  of  night 

Slide  slowly  into  tranquil  day. 


"I   WAS  A   STRANGER,   AND   YE  TOOK  ME  IN."    1 19 

The  sweetness  of  the  Land  of  Flowers 

Upon  his  lonely  grave  she  laid: 
The  jasmine  dropped  its  golden  showers, 

The  orange  lent  its  bloom  and  shade. 

And  something  whispered  in  her  thought, 

More  sweet  than  mortal  voices  be : 
"  The  service  thou  for  him  hast  wrought 
O  daughter!  hath  been  done  for  me." 


AT  SCHOOL-CLOSE. 

BOWDOIN   STREET,    1 8/7. 

THE  end  has  come,  as  come  it  must 
To  all  things  ;  in  these  sweet  June  days 

The  teacher  and  the  scholar  trust 
Their  parting  feet  to  separate  ways. 

They  part:  but  in  the  years  to  be 
Shall  pleasant  memories  cling  to  each, 

As  shells  bear  inland  from  the  sea 
The  murmur  of  the  rhythmic  beach. 

One  knew  the  joy  the  sculptor  knows 
When,  plastic  to  his  lightest  touch, 


AT  SCHOOL-CLOSE.  121 

His  clay- wrought  model  slowly  grows 
To  that  fine  grace  desired  so  much. 

So  daily  grew  before  her  eyes 

The  living  shapes  whereon  she  wrought, 
Strong,  tender,  innocently  wise, 

The  child's  heart  with  the  woman's  thought. 

And  one  shall  never  quite  forget 

The  voice  that  called  from  dream  and  play, 
The  firm  but  kindly  hand  that  set 

Her  feet  in  learning's  pleasant  way, — 

The  joy  of  Undine  soul-possessed, 

The  wakening  sense,  the  strange  delight 

That  swelled  the  fabled  statue's  breast 
And  filled  its  clouded  eyes  with  sight ! 


122  AT  SCHOOL-CLOSE. 

O  Youth  and  Beauty,  loved  of  all ! 

Ye  pass  from  girlhood's  gate  of  dreams  ; 
In  broader  ways  your  footsteps  fall, 

Ye  test  the  truth  of  all  that  seems. 

Her  little  realm  the  teacher  leaves, 
She  breaks  her  wand  of  power  apart, 

While,  for  your  love  and  trust,  she  gives 
The  warm  .thanks  of  a  grateful  heart. 

Hers  is  the  sober  summer  noon 

Contrasted  with  your  morn  of  spring  ; 

The  waning  with  the  waxing  moon, 
The  folded  with  the  outspread  wing. 

Across  the  distance  of  the  years 

She  sends  her  God-speed  back  to  you  ; 


AT  SCHOOL-CLOSE.  123 

She  has  no  thought  of  doubts  or  fears: 
Be  but  yourselves,  be  pure,  be  true, 

And  prompt  in  duty  ;  heed  the  deep, 

Low  voice  of  conscience ;  through  the  ill 

And  discord  round  about  you,  keep 
Your  faith  in  human  nature  still. 

Be  gentle  :   unto  griefs  and  needs, 

Be  pitiful  as  woman  should, 
And,  spite  of  all  the  lies  of  creeds, 

Hold  fast  the  truth  that  God  is  good. 

Give  and  receive ;   go  forth  and  bless 
The  world  that  needs  the  hand  and  heart 

Of  Martha's  helpful  carefulness 
No  less,  than  Mary's  better  part. 


124  AT   SCHOOL-CLOSE. 

So  shall  the  stream  of  time  flow  by 
And  leave  each  year  a  richer  good, 

And  matron  loveliness  outvie 

The  nameless  charm  of  maidenhood. 

And,  when  the  world  shall  link  your  names 
With  gracious  lives  and  manners  fine, 

The  teacher  shall  assert  her  claims, 
And  proudly  whisper,  "  These  were  mine ! " 


AT    EVENTIDE. 

POOR  and  inadequate  the  shadow-play 

Of  gain  and  loss,  of  waking  and  of  dream, 
Against  life's  solemn  background  needs  must  seem 
At  this  late  hour.     Yet,  riot  unthankfully, 
I  call  to  mind  the  fountains  by  the  way, 
The  breath  of  flowers,  the  bird-song  on  the  spray, 
Dear  friends,  sweet  human  loves,  the  joy  of  giving 
And  of  receiving,  the  great  boon  of  living 

In  grand  historic  years  when  Liberty 
Had  need  of  word  and  work,  quick  sympathies 
For  all  who  fail  and  surfer,  song's  relief, 
Nature's  uncloying  loveliness  ;   and  chief, 


126  AT  EVENTIDE. 

The  kind  restraining  hand  of  Providence, 
The  inward  witness,  the  assuring  sense 
Of  an  Eternal  Good  which  overlies 
The  sorrow  of  the  world,  Love  which  outlives 
All  sin  and  wrong,  Compassion  which  forgives 
To  the  uttermost,  and  Justice  whose  clear  eyes 
Through  lapse  and  failure  look  to  the  intent, 
And  judge  our  frailty  by  the  life  we  meant. 


THE    PROBLEM. 


NOT  without  envy  Wealth  at  times  must  look 
On   their  brown  strength  who  wield   the  reaping- 
hook 

And  scythe,  or,  at  the  forge-fire  shape  the  plow 
Or  the  steel  harness  of  the  steeds  of  steam  ;  — 

All  who,  by  skill  and  patience,  anyhow 
Make  service  noble,  and  the  earth  redeem 
From  savageness.     By  kingly  accolade 
Than  theirs  was  never  worthier  knighthood  made. 
Well  for  them,  if,  while  demagogues  their  vain 
And  evil  counsels  proffer,  they  maintain 


128  THE  PROBLEM. 

Their  honest  manhood  unseduced,  and  wage 
No  war  with  Labor's  right  to  Labor's  gain 
Of  sweet  home-comfort,  rest  of  hand  and  brain, 

And  softer  pillow  for  the  head  of  Age. 

ii. 

And  well  for  Gain  if  it  ungrudging  yields 
Labor  its  just  demand  ;  and  well  for  Ease 
If  in  the  uses  of  its  own,  it  sees 
No  wrong  to  him  who  tills  its  pleasant  fields 

And  spreads  the  table  of  its  luxuries. 
The  interests  of  the  rich  man  and  the  poor 
Are  one  and  same,  inseparable  evermore  ; 
And,  when  scant  wage  or  labor  fail  to  give 
Food,  shelter,  raiment,  wherewithal  to  live, 
Need  has  its  rights,  necessity  its  claim. 
Yea,  even  self-wrought  misery  and  shame 


THE  PROBLEM.  1 29 

Test  well  the  charity  suffering  long  and  kind. 
The  home-pressed  question  of  the  age  can  find 
No  answer  in  the  catch-words  of  the  blind 
Leaders  of  blind.     Solution  there  is  none 
Save  in  the  Golden  Rule  of  Christ  alone. 
9 


RESPONSE. 
1877. 

BESIDE  that  milestone  where  the  level  sun, 

Nigh  unto  setting,  sheds  his  last,  low  rays 
On  word  and  work  irrevocably  done, 
Life's  blending  threads  of  good  and  ill  outspun, 

I  hear,  O  friends !  your  words  of  cheer  and  praise, 
Half  doubtful  if  myself  or  otherwise. 
Like  him  who,  in  the  old  Arabian  joke, 
A  beggar  slept  and  crowned  Caliph  woke. 
Thanks  not  the  less.     With  not  unglad  surprise 
I  see  my  life-work  through  your  partial  eyes  ; 


RESPONSE.  131 

Assured,  in  giving  to  my  home-taught  songs 
A  higher  value  than  of  right  belongs, 
You  do  but  read  between  the  written  lines 
The  finer  grace  of  unfulfilled  designs. 


TORED  AT  NRLt 

///  I  fc 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


i-6,'67(H2523s8)2373 


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PS3269.V4  1878 


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